24. Tatum
24
TATUM
I t’s been ten minutes, and despite our little stare-down in the bathroom before I barged out, Pax didn’t follow me. Instead, he did as I suggested and hopped in the shower. Or at least, I assume, since I heard the shower turn on ten minutes ago. This means there’s no going back, and the bomb is ticking closer and closer to zero with every passing second.
I should leave. I’d be smart to. Especially when I know he’s going to scream like a girl in five minutes or less when he realizes his precious sandy-blonde locks that go perfectly with his espresso-colored eyes are a very bright, very permanent green color by the time he finishes showering. Okay, maybe I’m being optimistic. It’ll probably only be a minty color, and it’ll wash out in a couple weeks because it’s not like he'll leave it on for long, but a girl can dream, can’t she? And maybe, if I’m lucky, it’ll be the color of dog poop, and I won’t be so attracted to him anymore. Oh, what am I saying? I’m optimistic, not delusional. The guy would look gorgeous in any color. It honestly isn’t fair. Regardless, the desire to stay and watch the entire shitstorm unfold is too tantalizing for my own good, and even though I know I should get out of here, I kind of want to stick around to watch everything unfold. Hell, maybe I should make popcorn.
Probably a bad idea.
Seems it’s one of many.
The water in the pipes cuts off a few minutes later, and I lift my head, staring at the ceiling from the first floor. I said I was staying, not delusional enough to be within arm’s reach. Maybe I should’ve put the dye in the gel so it could sit longer. I have no idea if it even works fast enough to have an effect if it’s washed away almost instantly. Although, his hair is pretty light, so…
A deep, throaty laugh filters from the second floor. The sound makes my lower belly constrict with something I’m not stupid enough to identify or label. My ears perk, and my spine straightens, my hands as still as a statue’s as I fight the urge to book it out of the house.
Okay, so…something happened. But this isn’t the reaction I anticipated, so what does it mean? I have no idea. He doesn’t sound…mad. Or maybe he hasn’t noticed yet, and he was busy looking at a funny text or something? Not likely. But hey, it’s possible.
“Oh, Birthday Girl,” he calls.
Yeah, no. I changed my mind. I’m not gonna stick around for this one. I check my pocket for my keys, then freeze.
Shit.
Where are my keys?
Patting my jeans, my panic swells as heavy footsteps sound from the foyer.
“Oh, Birthday Girl,” he repeats.
He’s getting closer.
He’s going to kill me.
On instinct, I move around the kitchen island, leaving the cleaning supplies where they are, and duck into the pantry.
This is bad. This is very bad.
I cover my mouth, trying to steady my breathing in an attempt to make myself as quiet as possible, but I swear I can hear my own heartbeat. Or maybe it’s Paxton’s footsteps. The casual brush of bare feet against tile. Like he has all the time in the world.
“Are you hiding from me?” he calls.
I can hear the amusement in his voice, but I don’t make a sound.
“You are, aren’t you?” he decides. “Are you over….here?” He pauses. “No. Not by the table. How ‘bout over…here?” His voice is further away, and I let out a quiet breath I didn’t know I was holding. Maybe I’ll survive this after all. “Tate?” he questions.
I shift my weight forward in hopes of sneaking a peek at his whereabouts through the cracked pantry door when the floor creaks beneath my feet.
Shit.
“Oh, Tate,” he sing-songs. “What am I gonna do with you when I find you?”
He moves closer, the same casual lilt of his footsteps driving me more and more insane with every slow pass. “Should I spank you? Pin you up against the wall and whisper in your ear how you're a naughty girl?” He chuckles softly. “Not gonna lie. That sounds pretty fucking sweet, if you ask me.” The jingle of keys slips through the door. “Might as well come out, Birthday Girl. Pretty sure you’ll need these if you want to get out of here.” Another soft chuckle follows his statement. “Actually, after last weekend, I guess you proved that isn’t entirely true. But I’m not gonna let you borrow my car this time.” A shadow moves across the crack in the door before his espresso eyes meet mine through the slit. “Found you.”
My breath hitches.
A quiet creak cuts through the charged silence as he pushes the door open, and I step back, letting the pantry shelves press along my spine. The natural light kisses his tan skin, casting shadows along his strong shoulders as he moves closer, reaching behind him and grabbing the edge of the door. A towel is wrapped around his tapered waist, and his chest is on full display.
I don’t know how he does it. How he manages to steal my breath every time I see him. I’ve been around hot guys before. Plenty. But none have done this to me. Caused such a…visceral reaction that it leaves my head spinning. I’d say it’s my fear of facing the repercussions from the dye, but it isn’t. No. This is all Pax, and I don’t know how I feel about it.
The click of the door closing behind us makes me jump when we’re blanketed in darkness. His steady breathing is a stark comparison to mine, and so is the heat of his body as he cages me in, stealing all the space in the large pantry until all I can see, smell, and hear is him and only him.
Holding my breath, I whisper, “What are you?—”
“You got a thing for green?” he rasps. A warm hand hits my hip and tugs me against him.
Holy shit, batman. I have a thing for calluses, and the gentle tickle of his hand against my bare skin? Yup. It’s a problem. A big problem, if the, uh, outline of a certain appendage is anything to go by. The terry cloth and my jeans are the only barriers separating us. It only turns me on more, which is wrong on so many levels.
“You stain my bra, I stain your hair,” I whisper.
“You were the one who chose to wear your bra in the hot tub,” he reminds me.
“Would you have preferred I was naked in front of your friend?”
“Touché.” His hot breath hits my cheek. “So, what is this? An eye for an eye?”
My chin dips in a gentle nod, causing the top of my head to brush against his jaw. He’s close. Really close. And thanks to the lack of light, it only amplifies my other senses.
It’s official. Hiding in the pantry was a very…very bad idea.
“Then I guess that means I owe you, right?”
“What?” I whisper.
“For the beach. You got on your knees. Guess it’s time to get on mine.”
He drops down in front of me, his breath slipping through the fabric of my T-shirt and warming my belly as his hand trails along my outer thighs.
Ooookay, there.
Am I really doing this? Is he really doing this? I could tell him to stop. I could walk away. And I probably should. But the darkness is too much of a cover. It quiets the tiny voice inside my head. The one reminding me how much of a bad idea this really is.
The heat from his hands tickles my skin as he undoes the top button on my jeans before stopping. It’s a request. A check in. A confirmation that we might be playing cat and mouse, but he won’t go further if I don’t invite him to. And I kind of hate it. The unspoken request. The convenient out he’s giving me.
I should take it.
I won’t, but I should. Lifting my hand, I run my fingers through his damp hair, smiling as I imagine what it must look like. Slowly, I roll my hips toward him, urging his mouth to my bare skin above my pubic bone without a word.
He reads me loud and clear.
Dragging my jeans down my thighs, he places another kiss beneath my belly button. It’s enough to burn me up on the spot. I shift my weight to my right leg and he grabs the denim at my left ankle, tugging it off me entirely before moving to my right. We repeat the movements, his mouth never leaving my skin as he helps me shed my pants, while my pulse thunders in my ears.
“What color?” he whispers against my cotton boyshorts.
Giving the shelves more of my weight, I lie, “Green.”
A huff of amusement escapes him. “No shit?”
My mouth lifts. “It’s black.”
“Mmm,” he grunts, gripping my ass and tugging me toward him.
With a squeak, I grab the shelves behind me to keep from falling, and he kisses my slit through the scrap of fabric.
“So fucking wet,” he rasps.
My eyes roll back in my head as his fingers find the edge of my underwear. He pushes them to the side, finally exposing me. I’m grateful for the darkness. The way it swallows us whole, creating a world of our own. Slowly, he kisses my center, dipping his tongue inside of me before using his lips to tease my clit. I fist his hair as my head drops back, my breathing as stilted as it was earlier. Adding a finger, he curls it inside of me, massaging my inner walls while circling the little bundle of nerves with his tongue. It feels…it feels illegal. This man’s mouth. Honestly, it isn’t fair. I bite my bottom lip to keep from begging him to let me come, my legs growing weaker and weaker with every sweep of his tongue and drag of his fingers. But it’s too strong. The build. The ride. The euphoria just out of reach. And every time I think it’s close, Paxton moves his mouth, torturing me. Dragging this out and pushing me higher and higher without ever letting me reach oblivion.
It’s…pissing me off.
Twisting my fingers in his hair, I tug, hoping the slight twinge of his scalp will convince him to stop messing around. It’s a warning. A plea. And he better believe it’s the only one he'll get in this pantry. He smiles against my core, proving me right. He’s playing with me.
Sonofabitch.
I don’t like being on this side. The other end of the yo-yo, if you will. Nope. I’m the one who teases. Who edges. Who drives the other person crazy. Honestly, I’m not sure how he reversed the roles in the first place, but I don’t like it. Not one bit. Grinding my molars, I consider my options and how few there really are if I have any hope of walking out of here with the orgasm I most definitely need. Then, it hits me.
“You know,” I murmur. “It’s totally okay. You can stop.” I pat his head, giving him a gentle tap tap I’ve used in the past when the moment was gone.
When he pulls away, he lifts his head up, and even though I can’t see him, I know he’s looking at me.
“What?” he asks.
“I said you can stop. Not every guy is good at oral. My birthday was a fluke. Don’t even worry about it. I’ll just?—”
His low chuckle cuts me off and rolls over me as he drops his chin to his chest, letting the top of his hair brush against my pubic bone. “You know, you almost had me worried?—”
“Hey, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You did your part. Now, if you can just…give me two minutes to myself, I’ll get this taken care of, then be on my way.”
He kisses my inner thigh. “You gonna take care of yourself, Birthday Girl?”
“Seems I have to with a partner like you.”
“Is that a dare?”
“You tell me.”
Breathing in deep, he drags his teeth against the sensitive skin he just kissed, and my hips shift toward him, betraying me.
He smiles against my skin. “Count down from thirty.”
“What?”
“Thirty,” he repeats. “You stop counting, I stop eating. Go.” He grabs my leg and forces it over his shoulder, leaving my pussy bared in front of him.
“Thirty,” I say, my tone laced with boredom, though I’ve never been more on edge in my entire life. He seriously thinks all he needs is thirty seconds to make me come? I mean, he’s good, but there’s no way he’s that?—
He blows against my clit, and my hips jerk toward him. “Twenty-nine,” he says.
“Twenty-nine,” I repeat.
His finger dips into me again.
Hooooly Hannah Montana.
“Twenty…twenty-eight,” I whisper. He adds a second finger, crooking them inside of me like before.
Shit, that feels good.
“Twenty…” I bite my bottom lip, my fingers digging into the shelves behind me as he draws a lazy kiss along my clit. “T-twenty-seven.”
Shit. Shit, I’m already close. How am I already close?
“God, keep doing that,” I beg, my hips lifting to meet his mouth and fingers in the inky blackness.
It’s been…it’s been I don’t know? Ten fucking seconds, and like a spark, my body ignites. I fall apart, stars hitting behind my eyelids, my muscles tightening, my lungs seizing, and my jaw dropping as I come undone.
“Shhhhit,” I seethe.
His hands find my ass, taking my weight until I’m a fucking puddle in his grasp. I don’t know how long he holds me, how long I black out, or how long my body feels like mush. All I know is I’ll never turn him down again. Not from an experience like that. Want me to crawl, rockstar? You got it. Want me to do your fucking laundry? If you’ll eat me out after, I’ll do your fucking laundry.
Ho—ly. Shit.
Slowly, Pax’s lips trail kisses along my stomach and up my body, bringing me back to our reality and what just happened next to the boxed mac and cheese.
Making sure my Bambi legs can hold me, he lets me go and stands. But his mouth? It stays on me.
He skates his lips across my ribs, collar bone, and throat, then finally meets the tip of my nose. “Don’t forget to do the dishes.”
I blink past the post-orgasmic haze still clouding my nervous system. “What?”
“The dishes,” he repeats, smoothing out my T-shirt as I stand bare from the waist down. “You forgot them last time.”
Then, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving my jaw on the fucking floor.
Asshole!